When you get down into the middle of anything there are only pixels

This is the left side,
this is the right.

Memories are not six by four

inches
of truth.


This is the paper.
Face down

inside warm ducts like armpits;

inching
toward you.


This is the pigment,
truthfully fading

in damp boxes in corners of rooms, only

inches
from view.


This is the composition;
these, the right-angles

of light to capture you within

an inch
of your life.


This is the back. Over
-leaf;

this is the only side I can look at,

this is the narrow margin
that separates me from you.





June 2009.